The First Watcher
by daviderl
Summary: The title says it all.


10 Mar 2002  
  
  
  
The First Watcher  
  
  
  
The sun was going to set in an hour. Everywhere, people were finishing up the business of the day. They knew not to be caught out of doors after dark. Especially not tonight, nor tomorrow night, nor the night after. It was the time of the full moon.  
  
The old man hurried along as did the others. But he had farther to go. His cottage was at the far edge of town. He looked at the orange sun; he still had plenty of time, yet he did not slow his pace. He wanted to be home and safe before the sun touched the horizon.  
  
Upon entering his small one-room house, he set about checking, and double checking, the shutters. Tonight the locks had to hold.  
  
He examined the thick slab of board used to bar the door. He was confident it would hold.  
  
He placed unlit torches next to the fireplace, ready to light them if need be. Looking around one last time, he was satisfied. Neither the unholy blood-sucking creatures nor the wolf-demon would feast at this house tonight.  
  
After he ate his supper, he took down an old leather-bound book from a shelf. He laid it on the table and opened it to the first page, and read again the words he had written as a young boy. Words describing the attack on his parents' house of the very creatures he now fortified his cottage from. He read the passages every full moon, that he wouldn't forget.  
  
Only when he heard about a new way to kill the demons or to protect oneself from them did he write. It had been a long time since he added anything.  
  
He closed the book and readied himself for bed, but he knew he would not sleep well this night, for soon the undead would arrive and call to him, pleading or threatening. Inviting him to come out that they may feed upon him.  
  
He jerked awake when he heard them calling to him; they knew his name. They pounded on his door and window shutters. He knew they couldn't get in, but still he was unnerved.  
  
And then he heard the howl of the wolf-demon, at first far away. And each time he heard it, it was closer. Soon he heard it not far from his door.  
  
The snarling and growling began. The wolf-demon had taken down one of the undead. But the sounds didn't stop. Could it be that one of the creatures was able to put up a fight?  
  
He shook his head. He knew the wolf-demon -- it was powerful, more so even than the undead. He had seen it fight off a half dozen grown men, killing or maiming them all. He also knew the undead would not band together, they also knew, and feared, the wolf-demon.  
  
But the sounds of fighting continued. Knowing he was risking death, the old man slowly released the latch on one shutter and opened it a crack, trying to see.  
  
In the full moon he watched as the wolf-demon pounced again and again on a smaller figure. But each time the snarling wolf-demon was kicked away. The wolf jumped again, but whatever it was rolled under the wolf, and he saw the kick that sent the wolf-demon sprawling, and crying out in pain.  
  
As he watched in fascination, he could not believe his eyes. The figure was too small to be a man. And surely a child didn't have the strength and speed he was witnessing. Could it be one of the undead? One unlike he had ever seen before?  
  
Then for a moment, the figure was standing and the old man saw the long hair blowing in the wind. A female, in her early teens.  
  
As they continued to fight, the old man counted a dozen or more of the undead, watching. It had to be they were waiting for their champion to defeat the wolf-demon so they might feed upon it and gain its strength.  
  
Then the undead girl managed to get on the wolf-demon's back, her legs locked around its waist and her arms around its throat. And as he watched, the wolf-demon slowly fell to the ground, clawing at the arms that choked the life out of it.  
  
As soon as the beast was dead, the girl leapt up and away from it. Immediately two of the waiting undead were at its throat, sucking the blood while it was still warm.  
  
But as they did this, the others ran at the beast's killer. Seeing a little better, he decided she was a living girl and not one of the undead. She didn't have the markings between her eyes.  
  
He continued to watch as she fought them off. But even as she would kick them away and punch them and throw them, they would be back.  
  
Then, as she rolled away from one, a short length of tree limb appeared in her hand. He watched as she stabbed one in the chest, and it dissolved into dust. But she was hit from behind and the stick was knocked from her hand.  
  
Three of them jumped at her. She managed to knock two of them away, but the third had her from behind and was choking her as she had done to wolf- demon.  
  
Against his better judgment, the old man grabbed two of his torches and lit them. He unbarred the door and ran out, waving the torches around, fending off the beasts.  
  
"This way, child!" He yelled to her. "To the house! Hurry!"  
  
He lost one of the torches as two of the undead grabbed at it, but he swung the other, hitting one of them, who caught fire and was consumed.  
  
The young woman threw her head back into the face of the one who held her and it released it grip. She fell, rolled forward, then jumped to her feet and raced toward the open door.  
  
As she ran into the house, the old man was right behind her and almost tripped over her where she had stumbled.  
  
Before either could move, the torch the old man lost was thrown inside by one of the undead. But it only bounced harmlessly on the dirt floor.  
  
"We're safe now." The old man said to her, panting.  
  
But her eyes were fixed on the open door, and the half dozen undead outside, calling to and cursing them.  
  
"They cannot come in." He told her.  
  
"Truly?" She asked unbelieving, her eyes still on the open door.  
  
"Truly." He said as he slowly closed it.  
  
"What magic is it you possess that they fear to enter?" She asked, now in awe of the old man.  
  
"No magic, my child. 'Tis just one of the unexplained mysteries of them. They cannot enter unless invited to do so."  
  
"This is true?" She asked again.  
  
"Very true. But now we must tend to your wounds."  
  
"No!" She exclaimed. "I need weapons. I must finish the task. The undead still walk the night!"  
  
"That will have to wait for another time." He said, not wanting her to leave the safety of his house, not wanting her to risk death again.  
  
"You have many wounds that need attention."  
  
"They will heal." She replied. "I must go out!"  
  
"Please, do as I ask. They will return when it is night again."  
  
"But they will kill THIS night!" She said, becoming agitated. "It is my calling to slay them!"  
  
"No, my child, everyone knows not to venture out after sundown. No one will die."  
  
Then he indicated that she should sit at the table. Reluctantly, she sat and the old man lit two candles and placed them near her.  
  
Now that the young girl -- woman, was in the light, he could see just how many gashes and cuts there were from the wolf-demon's claws. And how many other bruises and scrapes she had.  
  
Even though he tried to be gentle as he washed the dirt and blood from her wounds, he could feel her flinch with pain. Taking down a bottle, he poured half the contents into a metal cup.  
  
"Drink this, my child. It will dull the pain."  
  
She sniffed it, then turned up her nose. "It smells most vile." She said.  
  
"Yes it does," He said smiling. "It is very strong wine. Drink it down for you have many cuts that need tending."  
  
Taking a deep breath, she turned up the cup and drank it as fast as she could, with some of it spilling out of both sides of her mouth.  
  
He took the cup from her as she fought to keep from gagging. Then quickly drank the water he gave her.  
  
As he continued to wash the blood away, he could tell the wine was beginning to calm her.  
  
The deepest gashes were on her arms where the wolf-demon had tried to pry them from around its neck. But there were cuts on her face and neck and back. Her knees were scraped raw, as were her elbows.  
  
"Tell me, Sire," She said suddenly. "Does the man-who-is-a-wolf also require invitation to enter?"  
  
"The who? The man who is a wolf? What are you taking about, Child?"  
  
"The beast that I fought and killed. Does he enter only when asked?"  
  
"If you are talking about the wolf-demon, the answer is no. That is why we must bar our doors and lock our windows. If he gains entrance, all will die. But why do you call him a man?"  
  
"It is his nature. On the nights of the full moon, the man-wolf becomes the wolf-man. But when he dies, the wolf changes back to the man."  
  
"My child, I believe the wine has made you silly. The things you speak of cannot be so. I have never heard of such things."  
  
"I speak truly, Sire. It is not the wine that guides my tongue. For I have slain two such beasts and watched as they turned to men again."  
  
"You have killed TWO of them before tonight?"  
  
The old man shook his head in disbelief.  
  
"Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed even one could die by your hand. How is it possible that a mere girl possesses the strength to do this?"  
  
"I do not know, Sire. But it has not always been so. Only for one year past have I been destroying those that live by night. I only know how to slay them, not how it is possible."  
  
The old man had so many questions, but which ones to ask first? Then he noticed that she was yawning and she was fighting to keep her eyes open -- the wine was taking full effect..  
  
"Here, Child, lay on my bed and sleep. We will talk more on the morrow."  
  
When she was covered and sleeping, the old man went to the shelf and retrieved a bottle of ink and a quill, then went back to the table, and with shaking hands opened the book to a new page.  
  
But he could not write. The excitement of the events of the past hour was still too fresh in his thoughts. His hands shook with joy and anticipation of finally having something new and exciting to write about.  
  
To calm his trembling hands, the old man refilled the cup with the wine and drank it down without pausing for breath.  
  
But he still couldn't write, he didn't know where to begin. Slowly he laid his head on his arms to think, and fell asleep at the table.  
  
  
  
The old man jerked awake. There was a noise inside! He heard it again -- it was his bed, creaking. When he looked and saw the young woman sleeping there, it all came back to him.  
  
"By all that is Holy!" He whispered. " 'Twas not a dream!"  
  
Lighting a new candle, for the others had burned down, he knew he had to write in his diary, before he forgot. Barely able to contain his excitement, he began to write in meticulous detail -- the warmth of the night, the strength of the wind, the fullness of the moon, the number of the undead, and the battle between the girl and wolf-demon. Had she really said it was a wolf - man?  
  
He recorded her every move - the kicking and rolling and leaping. And the way she hung onto the beast as she strangled it with arms so slim, had he not witnessed it, he would call anyone, even the village priest, Liar.  
  
He recalled that even as she jumped away from the animal she was attacked by a half dozen of the undead, killing one with a jab to the chest with a common stick. And the way she fought them off until he grew brave enough to risk his own life to get her to safety.  
  
Rereading his own words, he realized he didn't know her name. In the excitement, he had forgotten to ask.  
  
Watching her sleep, he shook his head. How could such a small, gaunt young woman possess such strength and speed, and courage, to fight these monsters. And to kill them!  
  
The old man turned back to his book, trying to think if he had left out anything, it was important that no detail was left unwritten.  
  
He heard the bed creak again and saw she was awake.  
  
"Is it morn?" She asked.  
  
"I will check." He replied, and walked to one shuttered window. Opening it a crack, he could see faint outlines of the trees, so he opened the shutter fully, then did the same for the other two windows.  
  
"Dawn is but a short time away." He told her. "You slept well?"  
  
"But for the dreams. And you, Sire?"  
  
"As well as could be expected." He smiled. "And your wounds, has the pain lessened?"  
  
"There is no pain, they are mostly healed."  
  
Looking closer, the old man's mouth gaped open as he saw the many cuts and scrapes were all but healed, though some would leave faint scars.  
  
"Holy God in Heaven," He whispered. "What manner of being are you?"  
  
Bowing her head in shame, she replied, "Forgive me if I have offended you, Sire. I will go."  
  
"NO! No, my child. There is no offense. You must stay! Please, do not go."  
  
"I will remain if it you desire it. My throat is dry, may I have water?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, of course." And the old man dipped the cup into a small open keg of water.  
  
After she had drunk her fill, the old man asked, "My child, I still do not know your name."  
  
"It is Charity, Sire."  
  
"Charity." He mumbled as he wrote the name into his diary.  
  
"My older sisters were Faith and Hope." She volunteered. "But they were taken by the undead, and when they arose I pierced their dead hearts with my spike of wood."  
  
The old man continued to write, mumbling the words as he did so. Then stopped and looked at her in confusion.  
  
"Forgive me, Child, but surely I must have misunderstood. You said they were taken by the undead, then arose and you ... slew them again?"  
  
"I spoke truly, Sire. It is the nature of the undead -- they suck the blood of living. But they do not truly die, but arise as undead. A stick through the heart, or sunlight, or fire, or removal of their heads turns them to dust."  
  
"I knew of the fire and the sunlight, but I knew not about the blow to the heart nor the decapitation."  
  
And he began writing again, trying to control his hands as they trembled with exhilaration.  
  
"Sire?" Charity said timidly.  
  
"Yes, my child, what is it?"  
  
"May I inquire as to your name?"  
  
"Forgive me again. I am William Arthur Roberts, at your service."  
  
"Sire Roberts, now that dawn has passed, I would show you the man that was a wolf, that you may see that I spoke true."  
  
"Of course! I forgot, the wolf-demon."  
  
As soon as they left the house, it was obvious that a man rather than an animal was lying a short distance away, in the very spot Charity had strangled the wolf-demon.  
  
Upon closer inspection, Sire Roberts saw that both sides of the neck had been chewed upon -- sure sign of the undead.  
  
"Will this poor unfortunate rise again?" He asked her.  
  
"I know not, Sire. Perhaps we should burn the body."  
  
"But he should have a proper Christian burial. 'Twould go against the church if we did not."  
  
"But if he turns, burial would not stop the rising. He would dig out from the grave; I have seen it."  
  
"Then it shall be done. I will say words over the body, that his soul may find its way to God, and then we will make a funeral pyre."  
  
  
  
After the fire had consumed the body and they had strewn the ashes, the two walked back to the house.  
  
"Sire, if I may inquire, what is you were writing in your book?"  
  
"I'll let you read it yourself while I prepare our breakfast."  
  
Sire Roberts opened the diary to the page he had started earlier to let her read, and he began to boil water, but she only sat there.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sire Roberts, but I know not how to read."  
  
"Then perhaps, when we can find the time, I'll teach you. Would you like that?"  
  
"I - I suppose. I have heard there is much knowledge in books such as this."  
  
He laughed. "Some books do, indeed contain good knowledge. But others can hold lies as well. Did your parents not teach you to read and write?"  
  
"My parents died of fever when I was very young. I barely remember them. I was raised by my sisters until the year past when they were devoured by the creatures."  
  
The old man nodded in sympathy. "Then you have no family?"  
  
"None, Sire."  
  
"You are welcome to stay here, if you like."  
  
Charity's eyes lit up. "That is most gracious of you, Sire. I shall be no trouble. I am strong and can work."  
  
Sire Roberts chuckled. "Yes, I am familiar with your strength."  
  
After a few seconds, he asked, "So, tell me Child, how is it you came here?"  
  
Charity's brow furrowed, as if she were concentrating on a difficult problem.  
  
"I cannot say for sure."  
  
Then putting her fist on her chest, between her budding breasts, she continued. "Something here, inside me, said that I must travel to this place, that there were creatures of the night here. I did not expect the man-wolf."  
  
Sire Roberts nodded again. "And how long will you remain?"  
  
"Again, I cannot say. Until the creatures of the night are have been destroyed."  
  
"Then until it is time for you to go, I will do what I can help you."  
  
"Oh, yes! With two of us hunting them, it will be easier."  
  
"My child, I am old. There is little I could do but watch."  
  
"But you are wise! And you have your book with its truths. And we can make weapons here, for there is sanctuary within these walls!"  
  
The old man could not help but be affected by her enthusiasm. He hoped her confidence in him was not misplaced.  
  
"Very well, my child. Together, we will battle the unholy creatures of the night. And perhaps someday they will be gone and we will no longer have reason to fear the darkness." 


End file.
